Chapter 30 Blurred Lines
Blurred Lines
Dinner should’ve been two hours ago, but the girls were still lounging in towels, wrapped in steam and the soft hum of Jaxon’s house.
“We need to eat,” Sara said, pulling the towel tighter around her as she padded barefoot into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, expecting a half-empty bachelor setup. Instead…
“Damn,” she muttered. “Does Jaxon moonlight as a chef in his free time?”
“What makes you say that?” Macie called from the hallway.
“His fridge looks like he robbed a damn grocery store.”
“Maybe he just went shopping.”
“I mean… his steaks were good.”
“Grilling and cooking aren’t the same thing.”
Sara didn’t answer. She was already halfway to the pantry, opening the door and stepping back when she saw the shelf of seasonings—rows of them, neatly lined, well-used.
She whistled. “Yeah, he can cook. Definitely not a salt-and-pepper-only kind of guy.”
She started pulling things out. Ground beef. Tortillas. A tomato. Jalapeno. Bell pepper. “We’re making tacos. Quick. Easy. Spicy.”
The girls rotated showers while Sara cooked, moving like she belonged there—barefoot, wet hair up, dicing vegetables in someone else’s kitchen without blinking. By the time everyone was back downstairs, the house smelled like heaven with a kick.
As they all sat down, plates full and eyes starving, Macie smirked.
“Who’s gonna tell him we’re devouring his food?”
“I’ll replace everything,” Sara shrugged, tossing some crumbled fresco on her taco like it was hers to use.
Halfway through inhaling them, Taylor groaned. “These are so good.”
“I still can’t believe how much stuff he has here,” Macie added. “Like… ingredients. Real ones.”
“I can,” Sara said. “I’ve seen his house. This man has a bathtub big enough to baptize someone. Of course he has chipotle powder and fresh garlic.”
The table broke into laughter.
But then things got quiet.
Not in an awkward way—just still. The kind of still that only comes from realizing you're somewhere... safe.
“You know what’s weird?” Taylor said, softly. “This house hits different now. We saw it before, but this time… no one’s rushing us. It’s ours, just for a little bit.”
“It’s unreal,” Macie whispered.
Then her grin turned wicked. “Sara. You have to tell us how that bed feels.”
“And what it’s like waking up to that view.”
Sara rolled her eyes, but smiled. “You know I’ll tell you everything. Tomorrow.”
Her phone chimed.
“It’s Claire,” she said, reading. “They’re staying an extra night.”
Macie grinned. “Oh, we know what that means.”
“Can we not?” Sara cut in. “Let’s just enjoy this place while we’ve got it.”
“I’m heading to bed,” she said, standing and stretching, the towel riding high on her thighs. “We’ll clean in the morning.”
“Waiting for the clothes to finish?”
As if on cue, the dryer chimed.
Sara smirked. “Apparently not.”
She grabbed a warm bundle of clothes, still wrapped in her towel. “Perfect timing is remembering to buy deodorant and toothpaste on the way here.”
The girls laughed as she disappeared up the stairs.
Upstairs, the house felt different.
Quieter.
Thicker.
She moved through his bedroom like she’d done it a hundred times—except her heart beat a little faster when she caught the faintest trace of his cologne still hanging in the air.
She brushed her teeth, turned off the lights, then stepped toward the windows.
The moon’s reflection skimmed across the water like silk. The sound called out beyond the glass—low, hushed, pulling.
She took a few steps back.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
Just… sat.
Her fingers brushed the comforter, soft and heavy. She looked back at the window.
Could you get used to this?
She didn’t answer the question.
Didn’t need to.
The next thing she knew, she was lying back. One arm behind her head, the other over her stomach. The moonlight spilling across her bare legs. The sound whispering against the glass.
And for a moment—
Just one—
She pretended it was hers.
The house. The bed. The view.
Him.
And then her eyes got heavy.
Heavier.
Until the thoughts blurred and the want faded and all that remained was the slow, rhythmic pull of the sound and the feeling of sinking deeper into a bed that didn’t belong to her.
Not yet.